


We Keep This Love in a Photograph

by kapplebougher



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anyways what's important is that there's a happy ending so, EDIT: just kidding it might be a little more angstier than I remember go figure, Evak - Freeform, It's not that angsty though!, M/M, Post-Break Up, i think???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 22:24:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11907438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kapplebougher/pseuds/kapplebougher
Summary: As he pulled out the last of his books on the bookshelf, one of the scrapbooks came loose and fell to the floor, face up. Isak automatically glanced down at the cover.Morocco - Summer 2017was written in white ink on the cover in Even’s handwriting. Above it was a picture of the two of them pressed cheek-to-cheek and smiling with a happiness Isak hadn’t felt in weeks. They were standing atop the roof of a building, the vibrant lights of the marketplace below them twinkling in the background like colorful stars.Isak swallowed.He wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it. But he turned back around and reached for the scrapbook on the floor.───────────────────────────────────It's been four weeks since Isak and Even made the decision to call it off. Now, Isak's back in their apartment of seven years and he's supposed to be moving out, but then he stumbles upon some memories that makes doing that a little difficult.





	We Keep This Love in a Photograph

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!  
> I churned this out over the course of one day, I hope there aren't too many editing errors lol
> 
> This was supposed to be hella angsty but I am slowly learning that apparently, I am incapable of writing that when it comes to Evak, so instead it's just a lil bit of angst and, ofc, all is well in the end  
> EDIT: ok so upon revision its actually maybe a little more angsty than I remember it being but there's like...scattered fluff?? if that makes any sense?? idk man
> 
> I hope you enjoy! <3  
> (title from Ed Sheeran's song 'Photograph'!)

Isak stood in front of the door of their flat, unmoving.

 _Not_ their  _flat anymore,_ his mind corrected unhelpfully. 

His key was in his hand but he made no move to unlock the door. He swallowed once but his mouth was dry; he ran his tongue over his lips.

He could do this.

He willed himself to shut down every emotion swirling inside his chest, gnawing at his lungs in a way that made it hard to breathe. There would be time for tears and grief later in the private solace of his room, where no one could see him when he completely gave into the hurt. But he wouldn’t let himself be consumed by them right now. Couldn’t. If he did, then there was no way he would finish what he came here for.

He wasn’t sure how long he stared at the door. At the little scratches on it, at the doorknob. It had been shiny and new-looking once upon a time but was now dull and murky from years of use. There were key scratches on it around the keyhole from the million times he and Even had come home, drunk and giggling and unable to get the key in fast enough to make it to their bed. There was a barely visible dent near the edge where Even had accidentally hit it when he was trying to fit a bookshelf through the doorway.

_“It’s not that bad,” Even said, frowning at the dent later on. “Maybe no one will even notice it.”_

Isak did.

The emotions began swirling up into a storm again, the gripping feeling on his lungs increasing tenfold. He’d been mere seconds away from—exactly what, he didn’t know, nor was he sure he wanted to—when a door slam from the floor above him made him jump. There was the faint sound of the jingling of keys, and then the sound of heels clacking their way down the stairs.

The clacking got louder and louder until the person descended onto his floor. He recognized her—it was the middle-aged cat lady that had lived above them. She owned somewhere between five and ten cats, and he and Even had always made a game out of naming them after their friends.

_Even leaned out the window a little more to look from a better angle. “That’s definitely Jonas,” he said, laughing and pointing at the very still, quiet cat with unruly, chocolate colored fur sitting beside the woman._

_Isak laughed, nodding. “Yeah, that’s definitely Jonas.” He could almost imagine the cat turning its slow eyes to him to lecture him on the detrimental impact of chain-stores in the world._

_The woman shifted, revealing another cat lying beside the Jonas-cat. Unlike the first, this one was covered from head to toe in pitch-black fur, and was even more immobile than the Jonas-cat, if possible. It was lying facing the building, and Isak could see its piercing eyes glance up at the two of them sniggering behind their window. Unimpressed, the cat looked away._

_Isak and Even looked at one another. “Sana,” they said at the same time, before bursting into laughter again._

 

Isak shuffled a little when the woman’s eyes fell on him. He could imagine how strange he looked right now to her, standing in front of the door of their flat with a key in his hand but not making any move to open it. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the energy to care. Besides, it wasn’t his flat any longer. After today he might never even see cat-lady again.

The thought filled him with much more sadness than he expected.

He could see the woman shoot him a confused look out of the corner of his eye, but she continued her way down the stairs all the same. He waited until the sound of her heels was just a faint echo in his mind before focusing again.

He needed to do this.

It took a few more moments and a few more shaky breaths to do it, but he eventually managed: he wrapped all his emotions messily into a bag in his mind and shoved them in a chest and locked it. If the only way to keep a hold on his emotions was to force himself to feel absolutely nothing at all, then he would have to do it.

He wouldn’t let himself break now. Couldn’t. There were things that had to be done.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The first thing that hit him was the smell— _don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it_ —because it smelled like _them_ , like home. The box of emotions that he’d locked up inside him rattled dangerously. It had been three weeks since he’d last stepped foot back in here, four weeks since they’d made the decision. Four weeks since he’d last seen Even.

But he didn’t have time to reminisce. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the time. _14:17_. He had told Even that he’d be done and out by 20, so that they wouldn’t have to see each other. They had mutually agreed that it was simply best not to see each other for a while, because they both knew that the wound was way too fresh and that it would hurt too much. Isak wondered if it would ever _not_ hurt. He didn’t think it would.

He should just get this over with.

He headed for their bedroom, purposefully keeping his eyes away from the collage of drawings and pictures on their wall. _Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it_.

Walking into their bedroom, he didn’t let himself pause and think. Couldn’t. His movements were methodical and mechanical, detached. He headed straight for his bookshelf—that was easy. His textbooks, old school notebooks and notes, pencils and pens and calculators—easy. Shoved into a box and done.

When he moved onto his closet, however, the lines began to blur. At first it was okay—his socks, shoved into the box, done. His jeans. His underwear. But then he reached the T-shirts and sweaters and hoodies, and he faltered.

A blue T-shirt that he was sure was Even’s, but only Isak ever wore it. A grey sweatshirt that was Isak’s, but he never got to wear it anymore because Even always was. And some clothes, especially the ones bought after they’d moved in together—Isak hardly knew whose was whose. The lines of the ownership weren’t just blurred, they didn’t even exist.

The emotions swirling in the locked box began to seep out, and Isak gripped the shirt in his hand until it hurt. How the fuck was he supposed to just do this? Seven years of their lives they had spent together, the strings that held their lives interweaving until they became one. How was he supposed to separate something like _that_ , like he was sorting colors from whites in the laundry? How was he supposed to do it without losing a piece of himself?

_Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think. Just do._

He swallowed once. He licked his lips. He clamped down on the lid of the leaking box of emotions in his chest.

He took the grey sweatshirt and left it in the closet. He took the blue T-shirt and put it in his box.

 

After two hours and maybe twenty to thirty near-breakdowns (one for every item of clothing that Isak hadn’t realized he’d suddenly had an emotional attachment to), he closed up the last box of ‘his’ clothes. He’d ended up falling into a pattern of sorts. Instead of trying to figure out whether something was initially Isak’s or Even’s, he’d tried instead to see whether or not he or Even would want it (or in his case, _need_ it) more. If it was something Even wore more than him, he left it for Even. If it was something that Isak liked, he kept it. And if it was something that Isak liked that Even liked too (like the one black sweatshirt they owned) he left it for Even.

It was more emotionally taxing than packing his textbooks, but it was a hundred times better than letting go of Even’s blue cable-knit sweater that Isak loved. Even never wore it much in the first place anyway, Isak reasoned with himself.

He moved around the room and stuffed some of the other miscellaneous stuff into bags, feeling more and more lost with each item. Did he leave the alarm clock for him or Even? Probably Even. He didn’t want for him to have to waste extra money on an alarm clock in London, he was going to have to buy a whole bunch of new stuff there, anyway.

Did he take the laundry basket? Maybe he should, just to hold his stuff.

The toolbox they’d invested in two years ago? Would he or Even need it more? He didn’t know.

The pillows and the blankets? Would Even even want them? He didn’t know, he didn’t know.

He wondered if he had it easier or harder than Even. He was moving out before Even was, which meant he had to pick and choose from their fully-lived in apartment. When Even moved out, he would be moving out from a half-empty apartment. Isak wondered if he was expected to come back and clean out the apartment when Even had moved. He didn’t know if he could bear seeing it empty.

When he couldn’t take the bedroom anymore, he wandered into the kitchen. Isak had never thought that he would ever have had an emotional attachment to the fucking kitchen of all places, but here he was. He didn’t know what he was supposed to take and what he was. Who was going to take the couch? Him, probably. He didn’t think Even would be able to drag their couch all the way to London.

Isak opened a cupboard. He had to dig his nails into his palm to keep the ache in his chest from taking over when he saw his and Even’s favorite mugs, side by side. He had the bizarre and sudden overwhelming urge to take Even’s mug instead of his.

_Even was grinning as he strode into the kitchen. “I’ve got a surprise for you, baby.”_

_“A surprise?” Isak’s eyes fell down to the bag in Even’s hand. “For me?”_

_“Yeah.” Even reached into the bag. “You broke your favorite mug last week, so I got you a new favorite mug.” He pulled out a new wine-red mug and held it up._

_“You knew that was my favorite mug?” Isak asked, his brain still catching up. He had, in fact, accidentally broken his favorite mug last week, but he hadn’t ever explicitly stated to anyone that it was his favorite. Nor had he used it exclusively enough for it to be obvious that it was his favorite, because he always forgot to wash the dishes and ended up having to use other mugs. Even hadn’t even_ been _there when the mug had broken, which made Isak wonder how he had even found out._

_Even nodded absently, frowning at the mug a little. “Yeah, of course. Obviously it’s not the same, but I tried to find the closest one like it. This one has a little bit of a bigger handle, I think? And it has a ridge around the middle right here.” He ran his finger over it. “But otherwise, it’s mostly the same.” He held it out to Isak. “What do you think?”_

_Isak felt an staggering rush of affection for Even flow through him, and he stood rooted to the spot for a moment, gaping at the cup. Then he took the cup and leaned up to kiss Even—with a little more intensity than a thank-you-kiss called for._

_“It’s perfect,” Isak said, thinking that the cup could be cracked and molding for all he cared. He would still find it perfect. “Thank you.” ‘Thank you’ barely scraped the surface of the magnitude of love that Isak was feeling, though._

_Even beamed and kissed him back, and they stood like that, making out for a little while longer. But when they really started getting into it, however, Isak completely forgot about the mug pressed between their chests until it began to slip and Even caught it with a laugh: “Don’t break this one, too!”_

 

Isak took his mug from the cupboard and made sure to wrap it up very carefully with a cloth before placing it in the box.

 

It was in the living room where it all fell apart.

He had been doing well, too. Or better, at least. The living room held an infinite number of memories but there weren’t many things Isak had to collect, so he was able to shut his mind down. He still didn’t allow himself to look at the collage of papers and pictures stuck to the wall— _that_ would be one very unnecessary emotional upheaval. A dirty sock of his under the couch, bagged and gone. A pencil of his (or was it Even’s? It was his, but it was Even’s favorite sketching pencil) that he slipped into his bag. Then felt guilty and left it on the coffee table.

He moved onto the large bookshelf behind the couch, the first piece of furniture he and Even had bought and assembled all by themselves, over two days filled with confusing and vague instruction manuals, wood splinters, aching wrists from screw driving, and bruised arms— _don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it_.

He left the little potted plants on the top shelf for Even. He'd been the only one who remembered to water them, anyway. Isak desperately wanted to take each and every little figurine and tiny statue and snow globe that decorated their second shelf—the little figurine from Stavanger, the decorative pin from Morocco—but he couldn’t bring himself to disrupt the way it looked. Isak remembered how Even had worked at it for a whole hour every time they got a new addition to it. In a split-second decision, he whipped out his phone and took a picture of them all sitting on the shelf together before shoving down his emotions back into the box. _Don’t think about it._ Maybe he would do the same for the collage on the wall, but he would do it right before he left so that he could leave before the wave of feelings took over.

He eyed some more of his old books and textbooks on the third shelf— _how_ had he had come into having so many possessions, he had no idea. When he’d moved out of his parents’ house at sixteen, he’d had clothes, shoes, his school stuff, and bedding, all of which had fit into four or five quick boxes. He had always been a minimalistic type of guy. Then he had met Even, and he was suddenly mourning the loss of leaving behind a fucking _pencil_.

The bottom half of the shelf was blocked a little by the couch, so Isak slid it over a little until it was exposed. He took the textbooks and notebooks out and unceremoniously dumped them into one of his boxes. He was feeling far too emotionally and physically drained to be organized and methodical anymore. Besides, they were papers from high school, he didn’t really care about them much. The fourth and fifth shelves were just more of the same—random textbooks and books of his and Even’s, shoved in between scrapbooks and photo albums.

As he pulled out the last of his books on the bookshelf, one of the scrapbooks came loose and fell to the floor, face up. Isak automatically glanced down at the cover.

 _Morocco - Summer 2017_ was written in white ink on the cover in Even’s handwriting. Above it was a picture of the two of them pressed cheek-to-cheek and smiling with a happiness Isak hadn’t felt in weeks. They were standing atop the roof of a building, the vibrant lights of the marketplace below them twinkling in the background like colorful stars.

Isak swallowed. He licked his lips.

_Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it._

He forced himself to tear his eyes away from the book. The box of locked up emotions was rattling dangerously inside him.

_Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it._

He put the textbook he was holding in his hand into the box. Slow and methodical. Mechanical. Detached. No emotions.

_Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it._

That had been the last of his textbooks from the bookshelf. There was no need for him to turn back to the shelf, he was done here.

_Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it._

He should just get up, close the box, and finish up in the bedroom. He shouldn’t turn back to the scrapbooks because he knew what it would do to him. He shouldn’t. Couldn’t.

_Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think abou—_

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it. But he turned back around and reached for the scrapbook on the floor. His hands and legs felt a little weak as they held the book in his hands, so he shifted a sitting position against the wall beside the shelf for support.

He gazed at the cover, and then at the time on his phone. _19:13._ He was supposed to be packed up and out of here in about forty-five minutes.

He flipped the cover open.

It took everything, _everything_ in him to keep himself from losing it from the very first page. He’d opened the scrapbook thinking he could manage to look at it from a removed point of view, no emotions—but now that it was all right in his face, he wondered how he could have ever thought he’d be able to manage that.

A picture of Isak, laughing at the camera with a half-packed suitcase in front of him. A selfie of him and Even at the airport. A picture of Isak, looking down at his ticket with a smile. Another picture of Isak again, looking out the window of the plane with a solemn expression. Even had let him have the window seat because it was his first time flying.

Underneath the picture, Even had written: _The boy who was scared of automotive transportation._ Beside it was a doodle of Isak, a thought bubble emanating from the snapback on his head. Inside the thought bubble was a picture of a car and then a plane, both with a large X drawn over them. Between them was a picture of a bicycle with a checkmark above it.

_“I am_ not _scared of planes,” Isak had declared just two hours before when they were waiting in their gate. But now Isak was actually sitting on the plane, the engine had started, and Isak couldn’t stop staring at the wing of their plane through their little window, where a huge flap was raised to expose the metal interior. Was it supposed to do that? They were moving and although very,_ very _slowly, they were moving all the same. The flight attendant at the front was calmly talking about oxygen masks and life jackets in the case of an emergency, and Isak stifled the sudden and overwhelming urge to ask her about the statistics of that happening._

_The only thing that kept him from doing so was Even’s hand was on his right knee, warm and firm and grounding. His thumb was running soothing circles onto his leg. And although Even had teased him about being scared of planes all through security and waiting in the gate, he hadn’t said a single thing to tease him once they’d actually stepped foot onto the plane. Even though Isak had no doubt that Even had noticed the way Isak had fallen quiet and how his left leg kept bouncing and how he couldn’t stop from looking out the window._

_Isak wondered what would happen if someone had a heart attack 40,000 feet in the air. Oh God, what if_ he _had a heart attack 40,000 feet in the air?_

_He was seriously debating just asking the hostess because fuck it—but then the flight attendants were gone, the lights dimmed, and the deafening turbines started and the entire plane began to vibrate a little, and Isak flattened himself further into his seat, tightening his grips on the armrests. He kept his eyes out the window—half because he was terrified to look away and half because he didn’t want Even to see the fear in his eyes._

_But Even didn’t need to._

_The vibrations from the plane’s engines whirring to life got louder and louder, and the plane stilled for a few minutes before it began to start moving again, but at a much faster speed than before. Isak pressed himself even further into his seat, as if he could disappear into it. He squeezed the armrests until his palms burned, feeling like he was in some sad parody of a rollercoaster ride, except one that was probably a hundred times more deadly. The fear in his chest held a vice-like grip on his throat, hindering his breathing. Fuck, this was even worse than that time he’d tried to drive._

_Even took over quickly. He replaced his left hand on Isak’s leg with his right and instead lifted his left hand up to curl it around Isak’s shoulders and draw him in. Isak went willingly—he decided that he could feel embarrassed about losing his cool later._

_Even lifted his hand to run his fingers through Isak’s hair and pressed him in closer. They watched together as the lights of the runway began to blur into a single beam of light as the plane picked up even more speed, and Isak tried his very best not to focus on that fucking flap on the wing that was_ still _flapping—he was almost_   _certain that it wasn't supposed to do that. Instead he tried to focus on the way Even pressed his lips against his temple before whispering in his ear:_

_“The view from above makes it all worth it, I promise.”_

_And then the plane’s wheels lifted off the ground and Isak’s breath caught. They lifted higher and higher and—_

_And fucking hell, it_ was _worth it._

 

Isak flipped the page. Another selfie, but this was one Isak had taken. They were still on the plane, and Isak was smiling quietly into the camera with Even asleep on his shoulder. His heart swelled a little in his chest when he realized how young they both looked, especially Even when he was asleep—how many years ago was this, six? Seven? It hurt.

He missed Even. He’d tried not to think it over the last few weeks, pushing the thought away because it didn’t help to think about it, but _God_ , he missed Even. What he wouldn’t give to feel the steady comfort of Even’s warmth beside him again, of Even’s fingers absentmindedly trailing over his side as they watched TV. He hadn’t realized how anchoring it had been until it was gone and Isak was left to float away into the darkness alone.

The chest of emotions in him rattled threateningly again. _Not now_ , he thought. Couldn’t his brain just let him have this one last moment to relive these memories in happiness?

He tried not to think about the fact that the reason he wanted to relive them so desperately was because he wouldn’t get to make any more with Even. And _that_ particular thought in itself nearly shattered the lock on his box of emotions.

Underneath the selfie, Even had glued their plane tickets. Isak ran his finger over it. His first plane ticket, he realized. Isak would have probably thrown his ticket away without a second thought right after his flight had Even not collected them and kept them in here. Even was always sentimental like that. Isak could even remember walking in on Even making this very scrapbook—the first of many.

_“What are you doing?” Isak asked, walking into the room and pressing a kiss to Even’s head in greeting._

_“Hi,” Even smiled up at him and then waved the picture in his hand around. “I’m making a scrapbook.”_

_“A scrapbook?” Isak repeated, huffing a laugh. He knew it was a thing that people did, he just didn’t know anyone that actually did it._

_Even hummed, holding up two identical pictures of them. “Which one?”_

_“Hm?” Isak blinked, he had been momentarily distracted by the chaos of cut up pictures and discarded strips around them._

_“Which one do you think I should pick?”_

_Isak stared at the photo in Even’s left hand, then his right, and then his left again. “They’re exactly the same?”_

_Even laughed. “No, this one is underexposed compared to the other. See how it’s sort of washed out?”_

_“I don’t know what that means, but okay. The other one, then.”_

_Even laughed again but seemed to accept Isak’s choice, reaching for the scissors._

_“So why are you making this?” Isak asked, looking over all the pictures spread out around them, realizing that they were all their vacation pictures from Morocco last week._

_“So we can look back on it later,” Even said. “And remember. Besides, photos are much nicer to look at in an album than on a phone.”_

_Isak smiled and shook his head, running a hand through Even’s hair before reaching for his homework. “You’re so sentimental,” he teased._

_“What, didn’t your family have photo albums?” Even asked, incredulous. “Like for weddings and stuff, at least?”_

_Isak shrugged. “I guess, but not really. Only with pictures from when I was really young.”_

_“Well,_ our _family’s gonna have a hundred of them,” Even declared, undeterred. “I’m starting a tradition.”_

_“You’re going to be the only one making them,” Isak laughed._

_“You just watch, our kids and our grandkids and their kids will all be doing it. And then when we look back, we’ll have a generation of scrapbook albums, it’ll be epic.”_

_Isak smiled, leaning back. “Yeah?” Before, Even going off about their kids and their future together had kind of freaked Isak out—he had just come out, he could barely see past what he was going to eat for dinner—but it didn’t any longer. It just felt…expected. An natural progression in their lives. Maybe not for years and years, but eventually, maybe._

_“Besides,” Even was saying, reaching for the tape. Isak handed it to him. “I don’t mind making them for everyone anyway.” Even winked. “I like making them.”_

_“But… it’s not different from looking at them on a computer. What’s so great about it?”_

_“_ Everything _, Isak,” Even said, his voice clouded with disbelief. “You’ll see.” He smiled and resumed cutting up the pictures. Isak rolled his eyes with a fond smile and let Even be. He didn’t understand what was so great about making photo albums when you could just access everything with a click of a button these days, but Even certainly seemed to be enjoying it, so Isak had no complaints._

_“Which picture?” Even held up two identical pictures of himself on a camel._

_“The left one.”_

When Isak had finished looking over the Morocco album, he felt a little bit numb but also a little bit like someone had stabbed him in the heart. He checked the time. _19:45_. He had fifteen minutes. He should really be finishing up and getting out of here before Even showed up, like Isak had promised he would.

Isak reached for the next album on the shelf.

He hadn’t realized that Even had made so _many_ —of course, Isak had walked into their flat from time to time a week or so after a big trip or party or something to find Even slouched over a new album on the floor, strips of colored paper, scissors, pristinely cut photographs and pens strewn around him. But after that first scrapbook album Even had made, Isak had learned to merely go along with it. Maybe he teased Even a little about being sappy and sentimental, and then maybe Even would make a face and fling a little scrap of photo paper at him, and then maybe Isak would catch it and blow a kiss at him and Even would blow one back, and then they’d both go right back to whatever they’d both been working on.

And once Even had finished an album, he would bring it to Isak and they’d skim through it quickly, pointing out and chuckling over little things and moments, and then Isak would never see the album again. He’d always known they were somewhere in the flat, but he’d never registered that they’d all been here, about fifteen or twenty of them hidden behind the couch onto the bottom two shelves of the bookshelf.

He started pulling all the albums off the shelves at random with shaking hands, glancing at each of the covers and feeling a wave of emotion at each of the titles, all written in Even’s handwriting and not knowing which one to begin with—

_Christmas & New Years 2020 in Stavanger_

_Post-Russ Summer Cabin Trip - 2018_

_Yousef & Sana’s Wedding – 12/12/22_

_Isak’s 18 th Birthday_

_5 Year Anniversary (Paris surprise!) – 2021!_

_Gabrielle Concert – August 2017 (+Pregame with boys)_

_Even’s 21 st Birthday_

_Easter Holidays 2019_

 

Isak’s eyes fell on another title that made him huff a laugh: _Kosegruppa Halloween 2017_. He didn’t remember Even making that particular album, but he certainly remembered the night. He remembered sneaking out of the party together without telling anyone and running down the street to Even’s bike hand in hand, Isak having no idea where Even was leading him but not really caring. Isak remembered grinning when Even turned down a street and realized where Even must have been leading them—the Sørenga pool.

 

_“Fuck, Even, we’re gonna freeze,” Isak laughed from his seat behind Even._

_Even threw a smile over his shoulder but kept pedaling. “Nothing we haven’t done before,” Even called back._

_When they finally reached the seawater pool, though, there wasn’t any hesitation from either of them. Both of them were off the bike in seconds. The wheel was still spinning as they ran down the steps. Eventually they both climbed up to one of the raised platforms on the pier made for diving. Even glanced at his watch._

_“It’s 21:19,” he breathed._

_They made quick work of their clothes, pulling off their costumes and shirts and jeans and tucking their valuables away. They both grinned at one another like idiots, goosebumps erupting on their skin and shivering a little, but Isak felt that that was more from the excitement than the cold._

_And looking at Even right now—half naked and incredibly hot in the moonlight—Isak really just wanted to go for it and kiss the hell out of Even right there. But he knew how Even wanted it to happen, so he made himself wait just a little longer._

_Even placed his phone in between their feet on the wood. Straightening, he took Isak’s hand. They both stared down at the glowing numbers on his screen and waited. 21:20. Just the edge of one year since they’d first kissed, since everything had changed._

_Even squeezed his hand, and an unrestrained, wild laugh burst out of Isak. And then the numbers flipped to 21:21 and they were both jumping, off the pier together and into the chilly water, feeling the air escape their lungs. Isak barely had time to let absorb the shock from the coldness before Even’s hands were on him and pulling him in, crashing their lips together. And then Isak was kissing him back and suddenly, he didn’t feel so cold anymore._

 

Isak flipped the scrapbook open and through the pictures of the Halloween party—Jonas, his arm slung around Eva and both laughing drunkenly at something on Jonas’ phone; Mahdi, raising a can of beer and grinning happily at the camera; Magnus, who strangely seemed to be in the process of taking off his shirt. Sana and Vilde laughing and holding each other, Sana having dressed up as Vilde again. Chris and Penetrator Chris, who had dressed up as one another. Isak kept flipping until he got till the end, to the picture he was looking for:

A picture of him and Even, both sopping wet and flushed from the cold, but both grinning at the camera like there were no other worries or cares in the world. Because in that minute, there really hadn’t been.

Underneath that was a little doodle of him and Even kissing underwater. Even had drawn himself in a long white robe and Isak was wearing a wreath on his head.

 _21:21!!!_ Even had scrawled underneath the drawing. _Happy 1 yr bby, love you._

And then, a little ways underneath that: _This minute will be ours forever._

And that did it. Before he could remember to get a hold on himself and his emotions, the lock on the rattling box in Isak’s brain shattered without warning.

And having held it back for so long—four weeks, he’d repressed everything for four fucking weeks—Isak reeled as the tsunami of emotions crashed over him. Isak felt the first tear slip down his cheek, and he roughly wiped at it out of instinct but it was useless—more kept coming in its place. This was the first time he’d allowed himself to cry since they’d called it off. And then before long they weren’t just tears but gasping sobs, the kind of gasps that reached for more air to fill the hole in his chest but couldn’t get enough and oh _God,_ how long had it been since he’d cried like this, like a little kid?

He blinked at the time through his blurry vision. It was 20. His time was up.

He felt utterly pathetic, crying on the floor of their apartment and completely helpless to his world that was crashing down around him. This was seven whole years of his life. Seven of the best fucking years of his life. Even represented all the wonderful things those years had to offer—a home, a family, love, comfort, joy—how the fuck was someone supposed to just let that go so easily? How was he _ever_ supposed to get used to that not hurting?

Another sob wracked through him. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. The album slid off his lap and onto the ground when he leaned forward to bury his face in his hands.

Neither of them had cried when they’d had the conversation four weeks ago. It was more of an empty conversation, hollow words and eyes that wouldn’t meet one another. And it hadn’t hit Isak until he fell asleep on Jonas’ couch without Even that night, and he wondered if he’d ever fall asleep in Even’s arms ever again. And then Isak realized why they hadn’t cried then, and why he hadn’t until now—because it hadn’t truly _really_ hit him, not that first night. Because even then it was him still wondering if he’d ever see Even again. 

But now, sitting here on the floor, his brain was unnecessarily supplying him with a plethora of imagery for him to mourn over, he finally felt the full weight of what they were doing.

He would never fall asleep on Even’s chest again. Even would never cook for him again. When his mother called on the phone and asked how Even was doing, he wouldn’t know. He would never wake up in the morning to kisses all over his face from Even. Even’s mother would never again stop by with leftovers for Isak because she knew Even would be gone for a couple days for work and that Isak would be surviving off frozen foods until he came back. Even wouldn’t have anyone to steer him away from the other aisles of the arts and crafts store before he bought seventy more things that he didn’t come there for. They would never call in sick from work just to stay in bed all day and eat food straight from the pan in the kitchen because they didn’t feel like washing the dishes. Even wouldn’t make him any more movies or any more comics, there wouldn’t be anyone for Isak to look forward to come home to when he had to stay late for work, no one for Isak take with him to parties even though they just ended up ditching to go home and fuck, no one for him to—

Isak glanced at the time again. _20:13_. He wiped under his nose with his sleeve. The pain in his chest hurt so much that he almost felt numb.

 _Might as well make the most of it if I’ve already fucked it all up_ , Isak thought, reaching for the next album.

 

Even came home at 21:21.

Really, Isak should have seen that one coming. He wasn’t sure if the thought made him want to laugh or cry.

But it still sent a jolt of shock down his spine when he heard the turning of the key in the door. He’d been so absorbed in the photographs and memories that he’d completely even forgotten that he should’ve been out with his packed stuff over an hour ago.

Isak kept his eyes down on the album on his lap as he heard Even’s footsteps come in and the closing of the door. He heard hesitant footsteps walk to the doorway of the living room, and then stop completely. Isak kept his eyes down. He didn’t move. He didn’t know what would happen to him if he looked at Even right now.

He knew how bizarre this scenario probably looked to Even. The flat a mess, packed boxes and bags littering the hallway and Isak sitting on the floor against the wall beside the bookshelf in the living room, maybe twenty or so scrapbook albums strewn about him in a mess. He knew that _he_ looked a mess, with bloodshot, puffy eyes, a wrinkled shirt and a raw and red nose. But Isak didn’t move. The silence in their apartment was deafening, and Isak began counting to keep his sanity.

Isak counted to fifty-three while Even took in the scenario in front of him. He kept his eyes on the photographs on his lap, but he really wasn’t really even seeing them anymore. Instead, he was suddenly hyperaware of the sound of footsteps again, getting closer and closer and closer until he could see Even’s gray socked feet out of the corner of his eye.

The socks he was wearing were Isak’s.

Even moved one of the photo albums to the side and slid down the wall beside Isak. He didn’t sit close enough so they’d be touching, but close enough for Isak to sense how close Even was. It was almost strange, being this close to Even and _not_ touching him.

And then, very gently, Even reached out and took the album that had been sitting in Isak’s lap and placed it on his own lap. He began to quietly flip through it from where Isak had left off. It was the _Summer Cabin Trip – 2018_ one, so there were pictures of the boys and the girls, along with Elias and his friends, who had been invited by Even at the last minute. Isak kept his eyes down but allowed himself to look over Even’s shoulder as he slowly flipped through the pictures.

A laughing picture of Magnus giving Vilde a piggy-back ride.

An orange-tinged snap of Noora and Eva, cocooned in a blanket by the campfire.

A grinning photo of Chris, brandishing a marshmallow on a stick.

A hazy shot of Isak and Jonas, lying on the ground with a joint dangling from each of their lips.

A perfectly timed capture of Elias and Even and Adam in the air as they raced to jump into the water together, a can gripped in each of their hands. And then Even flipped to the last page and they both went very still—Isak had never seen this picture before.

It was a picture of him and Even on the rocks outside the cabin. Even had Jonas’ guitar in his lap with his fingers in position and was facing Isak, who was seated facing Even. Neither of them were looking at the person taking the picture—in fact, they looked quite blissfully unaware of anything going on around them—but rather, they were looking at one another with quiet smiles. This one was from nearly five years ago, and they both looked young and so in love but Isak knew that if someone were to take a picture of him and Even now, he would still be looking at Even like that.

And then he realized: he always would.

They sat in silence for a bit longer and then Isak couldn’t take it anymore.

“Even,” he spoke for the first time that day. He hated how his voice cracked. “Even, I can’t do this.”

He pushed past the aching in his chest and forced himself to finally look at Even’s face because he had had to do without it for four weeks and he couldn’t take another minute of it. Even’s eyes were red, too, and he was still gazing at the photo of them. Isak bit back the urge to wipe away the tear that was sliding down Even’s cheek. It was a strange feeling, holding back. He hadn’t done that in years.

“I can’t do this,” he said again, and Even turned to meet his eyes. Isak saw how pale he looked, the bags under his eyes—and he knew that he hadn’t been the only one who had had trouble sleeping these last few weeks. But there was a comfort in seeing Even’s face after not seeing it for so long. He’d missed it. Even was home.

“Neither can I,” Even said, the admission whispered so softly that Isak wouldn’t have heard it if the rest of the flat hadn’t been so devastatingly quiet.

They both sat in silence for a little longer. Isak could see both choices for him at the crossroads he was standing at. But he knew his answer. It hadn’t ever really even been a choice to begin with.

“I would rather move to London with you than lose you,” Isak said. He was surprised at how confident his words were, as if he’d known the answer all along. He kind of wished he would have realized it a little sooner. Four weeks sooner. It would have certainly spared him some eons of unnecessary heartbreak and pain.

“We talked about this, though.” Even shook his head, looking torn. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“I know. You didn’t. I decided for myself.”

Isak saw Even visibly swallow, and lick his lips. “You know how it goes with a job like that,” he whispered. “I might not be able to ever move back.”

“I know.”

“You would have to leave all your friends behind.”

“I know. We can visit.”

“You would have to start all over.”

“ _We_ would have to start all over. Together.”

“It won’t be easy,” Even said, his voice shaking, and Isak knew that it was killing him to put up a fight like this to keep Isak here. Isak wished Even would give up, though. He knew his choice and he was certain. He wasn’t going to let Even move to another country all by himself.

Seeming to steel himself, Even shifted a little to face Isak a little more squarely. “It’ll be really hard at times.”

“Then we’ll take it minute by minute,” Isak said. And then he wanted to hold Even’s hand, so he shoved away any thought to hold back because fuck it, and he took Even’s hand in his. Their fingers interlaced together immediately, automatically, out of muscle memory in itself, and if there was any part of Isak that wasn’t certain with his choice before, he sure as hell was now.

“I just—I _want_ you to come, Isak, more than anything. But I wouldn’t be able to bear it if you did and you ended up being miserable there and then—end up hating me for uprooting your life and dragging you over there.”

“I could never hate you,” Isak said softly. Even didn’t respond, so Isak said, “Besides, what happened to minute by minute? Aren’t we only supposed to deal with the shitty stuff when we get to it?”

But Even still didn’t look believing.

“Even,” Isak said firmly, “I swear I’ll tell you if I’m miserable. I don’t know if I will be, but I doubt I would if you’re with me. But what I do know is that if I stay here without you, I _will_ be miserable. These last few weeks, they’ve—“ He felt that jumpy feeling in his throat again, the kind before a sob ripped its way out, and he swallowed it down. When he spoke again, his voice shook a little. “They’ve been hell. I don’t think I can bear that again, I can’t. Let me come to London with you. I want this.”

Even took a shaky breath. His frame slackened, like all the fight had left him. And then—

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Isak echoed. There was a moment of silence in which they both gazed at one another, red-eyed and not quite believing that this was real and then Isak wasn’t sure who moved forward first, but then they were hugging fiercely, Even’s album sliding off his lap, arms and legs and hands and hair and fingers all tangled up into one. Even was clutching onto him so tightly that it was almost painful, but Isak wouldn’t have had it any other way. He didn’t want to let go ever again. They were both shaking with sheer overwhelming relief.

“This was so stupid,” Isak mumbled into Even’s ear. “Fuck. Why couldn’t we have figured this out four weeks ago?”

Even let out a surprised laugh and leaned back to look at Isak’s face. Isak reached up with his thumb to wipe away a stray tear from Even’s eye, to make up for the one he hadn’t been able to get before. And then Even leaned in and kissed him, and Isak couldn’t believe that he had gone _four fucking weeks_ without this and had actually somehow survived, and then Isak was pulling them both up and they were standing and laughing through their tears and stumbling over their scrapbooks and packed boxes and bags in a rush to make it to the bedroom without separating their lips.

And as Isak fell back onto their sheets and pillows that still smelled like them and Even climbed over him, Isak was very thankful that he at least hadn’t bothered to pack their duvet and pillows.

 

 

**4 Months Later**

 

Isak glowered at the little red slit on his finger. How the hell had a _photograph_ given him a fucking paper cut? It wasn’t even _paper_.

He heaved a sigh and grabbed the perpetrating photograph, and ignoring the dull sting emanating from his thumb, he reached for the scissors again. He had no idea how Even managed to find the patience to do this. He was only five pictures in and he was fucking _exhausted_. But, it gave him something to keep his mind off the phone calls he was waiting for from the six different veterinarian clinics he’d applied to.

He heard the front door open and heard Even’s greeting, and Isak called one back.

“Did you know,” Even said, “That here they call vacuum cleaners ‘hoovers’?” Isak could hear him shuffling in foyer with his jacket and shoes. “And I had no idea. This lady was talking about one to me for about ten minutes and I had no idea what she was—whoa. What are you doing?”

Isak smirked up at him. “Making a scrapbook.”

Even’s eyebrows shot up. “What? Seriously?”

“Mhm.”

Even carefully toed around the chaos of cut up photos to come stand behind him (if Isak had thought _Even_ had been making a mess when he’d been making these albums, it was nothing compared to the tornado that looked like it had just touched down upon the room right now). Isak closed the album and tilted it so that Even could see the title of it:

_New Home and Exploring London, 2023_

Isak had glued a picture of them, smiling at the camera with just the tip of the Big Ben visible above their heads.

Even sat down behind Isak and pulled him in between his legs so as to look at the album over Isak’s shoulder. Isak could feel him smiling into his shoulder as he flipped through the first two pages, and then he gave a surprised laugh when the pictures abruptly stopped on the third page.

“I haven’t gotten very far,” Isak admitted.

“I love it,” Even said. He flipped to the first page and admired them for a few more minutes, and then abruptly snorted. “Who’s the sentimental one now?”

“Shut up,” Isak mumbled, elbowing Even lightly. Even just laughed and drew a finger to Isak’s chin to turn his head to the side and up for a kiss.

“I knew you would eventually see the value of physical photocopies,” Even said when he pulled away.

“What they are is a physical pain in the ass,” Isak said, holding his cut thumb up. Even pulled it in for a kiss and Isak decided that that would do for now.

“Want some help?” Even asked.

“ _Please_ ,” Isak groaned, collapsing back onto Even’s body. “This is so fucking hard. I don’t know how you get those little designs on the side when you cut them. I can barely cut them straight.”

Even laughed, wrapping his arms around Isak. “Okay, okay: you can stick and glue them all in. I’ll cut.”

And then a few minutes and one or four make-out sessions later, they had set up an efficient system (or at least somewhat efficient, Even was fast and Isak was not, so they balanced the pace out) to make the scrapbook album. Isak had to admit that the whole scrapbooking thing was much more fun now that Even had joined in on it.

“It’s a good thing we finally got that vacuum,” Even noted at some point, glancing at the utter mess around them. “We have to get this place cleaned up before the Jonas and the boys fly in to visit next week.”

“Why?” Isak smirked. “So you can make _another_ album about their visit?”

“Of course,” Even huffed. “I told you, I’m starting a tradition. See, even you’ve caught on, too!” He laughed when Isak made a face and dodged the piece of tape Isak flicked at him. “Soon it’ll be our great-great-grandkids. We’ll have hundreds of albums.”

“Our poor kids,” Isak mused.

“They’ll learn to appreciate them. You did,” Even added with a smile.

“I did,” Isak admitted. And then, after a moment of thought, “They reminded me of what was most important.”

Even looked up from the picture he was cutting out and gazed at Isak for a moment. The corner of his lips tipped upwards in the smallest of smiles and he leaned forward on his hands and knees to press a kiss to Isak’s lips.

“They do that for me, too,” Even said softly.

Isak pulled Even back in. They were never going to finish the album tonight at this rate, but Isak didn’t mind. They had time, all the time and minutes in the world. Even was smiling and letting Isak tug him down as Isak laid back, hoping that he wasn’t crushing too many photographs with his back as he went down, but he was far too otherwise occupied to care or check.  And as they laughed into kisses lying on the new floor of their new flat in a new country, Isak knew that it wouldn’t be long before they got comfortable into a new life here. It didn’t matter where they were. Because as long as he had Even with him, Isak was home.

Even was home.


End file.
